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Top Five Recipes For The Zombie Apocalypse

I was thinking to myself today, “P-Dawg…” (because that’s what I call myself sometimes is P-Dawg), “… Should the Zombie Apocalypse occur, what kind of gourmet meals could you whip up on a budget of $0 and a good mini-mart ransacking?”. I mean, I think we all have this thought at some point, don’t we? Duh. So, to save you all time, I’ve done the leg work for you. Good thing I’m thinking ahead, too, because if I get my leg chomped by a zombie, I won’t be able to do leg work any more at all.

One thing of utmost importance, before I go any further, is that a can opener is crucial to try to keep handy, because not only is it essential in many post-Apocalyptic recipes, it’s also good for use in striking a deadly blow to a zombie’s head. Dual purpose items will come in very handy during the Zombie Apocalypse, I imagine.

1.) Pop Tart Peanut Butter Balls

I know you may be thinking… Why would you mess with a perfectly good Pop Tart? But trust me. After a few days of the same old boring zombie killing and Pop Tart eating, you’re going to want to shake up that breakfast a little. All you need is a handful of peanut butter (crunchy or creamy, whatever your preference, or whichever you’re able to pry out of the nearest cold, dead hands), a Pop Tart, smash ’em together, and shape into smooshy Apocalypse balls. If you’re REALLY feeling wacky, feel free to roll in Captain Crunch crumbs, just for sugar shits n’ giggles.

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2.) Sweet N’ Sour Spam

I don’t know about you, but I love recipes with an N’, because let’s face it, they’re just fun. And who doesn’t enjoy a good can of Spam? I know I do! All you’ll need is a can of Spam (either cut into chunks if you can obtain a knife, or ripped apart with your bare hands like a Spam savage), a can of pineapple chunks, some brown sugar, water, a saucepan or garbage can lid, and fire. Throw the ingredients together, and simmer until hot. If you’re afraid the fire will draw zombies, it’s perfectly acceptable to eat this cold. After all, it’s the Apocalypse. Beggars can’t be choosers. Yeesh. So high maintenance.

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3.) Beef Jerky With A Goober Grape Glaze

You don’t even need a can opener for this one! Just pop open that can of Goober Grape, smear that jerky with a good Goober Grape coating, and enjoy.

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4.) Beefaron-Its! Casserole

After a hard day of fighting zombies, you’re going to be hungry for something hearty. Not only does this fit the bill, but it’s also super simple to make. Just crumble the crap out of those Cheez-Its, mix with the Beefaroni, and you’ve got yourself a Chef OHBOYardee! masterpiece fit for any zombie-bludgeoning warrior.

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5.) Twinkie Trifle

No Zombie Apocalypse would be complete without dessert, or the scariest of spongy pastries… The Twinkie. This one is very simple. All you need is Twinkies, Magic Shell, Marshmallow Fluff, and Frosted Flakes. Find the nearest semi-clean container, layer the ingredients, and Voila! Apocalypse-friendly dessert for a crowd!

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Stay tuned for what I have in store for you next week: Apocalyptic cocktails! Just because there’s an Apocalypse doesn’t mean we can’t raise a martini glass, and our pinkies. I mean, unless our pinkies have been bitten off. Let’s just hope that doesn’t happen.

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Posted by on January 4, 2014 in Humor, Uncategorized

 

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Life Is Hard. Blogging Is Harder.

Dear one person who may read this blog:

Ok, ok… I know… I’ve been neglecting my blog.

I’ve discovered one of my character flaws, of which there are very few, I may add, is that I tend to lose interest in things rather quickly. One day I want to blog, the next day I want to wear leather pants and start a rock band, the next day I want to do standup, the next day I want to bake cupcakes… You get the idea. Plus, I’ve been very busy attending high-class functions (like Spin class at the YMCA), and focusing on my health (like eating Baked Cheetos). But today I happened to be inspired by a brilliant blog that a friend shared with me and told me that it could’ve been written by me. And I’m like, “Huh? I mean, I’m sort of amusing at times, like after a few RumChata drinks, but could I potentially really write something THAT interesting, and smart, and laugh-out-loud funny? Come on now. What do you want? Are you moving in the near future and require the use of my roomy hatchback vehicle?”. But, as it turns out, surprisingly enough, she was not alone in her opinion. So, let’s give this another shot. I’ll think of something interesting to blog about, I swear.

Don’t go anywhere.

Please love me.

Sincerely,

Paula In The Country

 
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Posted by on September 19, 2013 in Humor, Uncategorized

 

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But I Don’t Want To Follow The Yellow Brick Road!!

 I. Hate. Storms.

Always have. I don’t know from where this fear stems, but as soon as I hear any mention of the word ‘severe’ in the weather segment of the news, I’m weeping in a corner of my basement with my security blanket, praying to the Tornado Gods to please spare my house, my dog, my super cute boots, my liquor, and my snack foods. The Tornado Gods would be very cruel to take my snack foods. Although, I’d gladly toss up my whole wheat tortillas as a Tornado God offering. Not my favorite. And they’re round. They can be shaped into a cylinder like a tornado. The Tornado Gods may just go for it. You listening to this, Tornado Gods? You can take my tortillas, but leave the RumChata. Got that?

So here I sit, watching the news, waiting for the next round of severe weather to hit, knowing I have to drive approximately 45 minutes down the road in less than half and hour, and I’m pooping my pants a little. I figured maybe the blogging world would want to know, and, if something happens to me tonight, if my Versa happens to get swept up into a twister, please don’t let my RumChata or my super cute boots go to waste. I bequeath them to you. No… Not you. Your calves are much too big. You there, with the slender calves. Take my boots. Wear them well. Do RumChata shots. Peace be with you.

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Posted by on June 25, 2013 in Humor, Uncategorized

 

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This Is Me, And I Am Here

There are times I curse my age. Granted, 37 is still a pup to some, but it’s no 32, I’ll tell you that right now. My knees make a Corn-Flakes-being-crunched sound when I go up stairs, my smile lines are slowly creeping down towards my chin, and my boobs… Well, don’t even get me started on what’s happening to my boobs. But one awesome thing I will say about my age is that I’m slowly but surely learning to accept who I am; Complete with my imperfections, including too much swearing, too much Saturday night drinking, falling asleep on my couch at 8pm like a retiree, my occasional insecurities, my emotions, which can get the better of me sometimes, and my all-around dorkiness. For years I tried to change who I am to be who I thought people wanted me to be, and apologized when it turned out I wasn’t. But, I think I’m done with that. As difficult as it is, I’m becoming willing to walk away from people who don’t treat me well, whereas in the past I would’ve kissed their ass to try to change their behavior towards me. But finally… Breakthough! I like me. It took me a long time to say that, but I truly, finally do. So instead of focusing on making dickish people love me, I think it’s time for me to focus on the far smarter people who already do. And that includes myself. If it were possible for me to lick my own face right now, I totally would. I’m gonna go try anyway. Maybe my inner Gene Simmons will come out. That’d be a little badass, not gonna lie. 

 
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Posted by on June 19, 2013 in Humor, Uncategorized

 

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My Father’s Daughter

Ever since my dad passed away a few years back, I have kind of a hard time with Father’s Day. It’s weird, because growing up, my father and I never really got along. Looking back now, I think it’s because we’re very much alike. He was always cold and seemingly emotionless with those closest to him, but when we were in the company of strangers, he was the funny and charming and nice dad that I wanted. I see this behavior in myself a lot, although I do my best to try to break that cycle.

Beyond that, I never knew him at all, really. The memories I have of my dad are very few. I remember being small and waking up early with my mom to see him off to his job as a carpenter. I remember watching Friday night TV curled up with him on the floor. I remember being angry with him for going on hunting trips where I knew he was going to kill Bambi. I remember him bringing me a giant stuffed owl from Wyoming that I named Snowy, which made me almost immediately forget that I was angry with him for the whole Bambi thing. I remember Christmas mornings where we had to wait for his coffee to brew before we opened presents, and the pot of coffee that always seemed to brew slower than on any other morning. And I remember being horrible to him as a teenager, which I still don’t understand. I remember hating him for no reason, and now, as an adult, I wish I could take that all back, and get to know who he was. Because I bet he was a pretty interesting dude. But anyway, all of these tiny moments I remember; But never once do I remember telling him I loved him or hugging him, and I will forever regret that. Even at the end, when he was dying in hospice care, I refused to show emotion or go sit with him and hold his hand. I hate that I did that, and I’d like to kick my own ass for it. But hopefully he knew that I loved him. And although I never really knew the person he was before I came along, or really who he was while I was growing up, I miss him every single day, and I hope he’s out there somewhere and he’s aware of that. And someday, I hope I can sit down with my dad, up there in matching recliners on a cloud, both looking fabulous and youthful, sharing some big-ass beers.

 

Oh yeah, and Happy Dad’s Day a little early to all the awesome dads out there. Including mine.

Miss you, Daddy.

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Posted by on June 13, 2013 in Humor, Uncategorized

 

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Candy Crush Cult

I’m pretty sure I’m losing friends because I refuse to participate in Candy Crush Saga. I’m not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, I am just not a game person. Never have been. Not since the Q-Bert era, anyway. I get game anxiety. I’m afraid of game failure. I think it may stem from when I was a child playing Operation, and every time I tried to extract his tiny little leg bone and failed, my brother would give me a giant wedgie. It still haunts me. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, weeping and frantically pulling my drawers out’ my ass crack. Hang on… I need a moment…

Ok, I’m back. That was emotional for me. Back to my original thought…

I feel as if my friends’ lives are being taken over with this game, and because I’m a Non-Crusher, I’m some kind of outcast. I want in, damn it! But then again, I really don’t. It’s a double-edged sword, I tell ya. If they’d start making Candy Crush Saga like Pitfall, and put in some alligators eating dudes and shit, I’d be in. Until then… Screw you, Candy Crushers. Hell no, I won’t go!

But… please come back to me.

I miss you.

Love me.

 
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Posted by on June 7, 2013 in Humor, Uncategorized

 

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Run, Paula, Run!

It’s been a while since I’ve blogged. Life’s been busy lately, and frankly, I haven’t felt very inspired, nor felt I had anything very interesting to blog about. I still don’t, but I’m bored and sweaty, so I figured I’d jot a little something down. What the hell. If you’ve read my previous blogs, you’d know that I recently trained for and ran a 10 mile race, which I still firmly believe I was drugged into doing. Following, please find a brief and descriptive recap of my big race day:

12AM – 2AM: Holy shit. What did I do???

3AM: Should I start carbo loading now? I think I have to poop. I should probably try to sleep. I wonder if running without underwear would be a bad idea or a good idea?

4AM: Holy shit. What did I do???

5AM: Screw you, alarm. 5 more minutes, Ma! Wait… SHIT! I have to go run 10 miles! Wait… Is it raining?!?! Rain was not in the forecast! This will not be good for my prone-to-frizziness hair.

6AM: Is it safe for me to be driving loaded up on all this Gatorade?

7AM: FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.

7:30AM (Race start): Someone please trample me so I don’t have to do this.

7:30AM – 7:40AM (Mile 1): UPHILL? Why are we starting UPHILL?? I’m gonna die. Hey, that old dude just passed me! Suck it up, Paula. Fuck up the old dude!

7:40AM – 8:25AM (Miles 2 – Mile 5): Huh. This isn’t so bad. I’m actually kind of relaxed. Good pace, P-Dawg (That’s what I call myself sometimes)! You can do this. You’re kicking ass! I wonder how my butt looks when I run?

8:25AM – 8:35AM (Mile 6): Woo-hoo! Downhill! I like this part! I can do this shit all day!

8:35AM – 8:45AM (Mile 7): What happened to the downhill? This is bullshit! Don’t tell me I’m looking good, you Gatorade-toting slut. Just hand it over and shut your hole.

8:50AM – 9:00AM (Mile 7-1/2 – 8-1/2): Ohhhhhhhhhhh crap. Downhill is now uphill. Gonna die. Someone kill me now. Please, God, let a semi come barrelling down the street to run me over. Shit! Cute cop up ahead! Smile, Paula, smile! Pretend you’re ok. Stop drooling! Stop drooling! Look sexy! Wait… Are my legs seizing up? This could be bad.

9:00AM – 9:15AM (Mile 8-1/2 – 10): Can I crawl? Would that be OK? Shit… another cute cop! Sexy, Paula, Sex…. Aw, fuck it. Sexy left the building a couple miles back.

9:15AM (Finish Line): Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. Water. Water. Water. Bagel. Water. Mimosa. Bloody Mary.

I don’t remember much after this, until my friend said something about free massages, and I had a stranger rub my lower half. Normally I’d be opposed to this kind of inappropriate touching from a stranger, but at that point, I didn’t much care what anyone did to me as long as they didn’t make me run any more.

In all seriousness, this was a huge accomplishment for me. I signed up on a whim, not really believing I’d be able to commit myself to the training, but I did, and for that, I’m extremely proud of myself. I’ve never been athletic in the least, so this was definitely a challenge. My goal was to finish the race in under 2 hours, and I kicked that goal’s ass by 16 minutes. And now, it turns out, I’m pretty fired up to beat my own ass next year. This is a far cry from the girl who, immediately after the race, told her friend, and I quote: “I am never doing this fucking bullshit ever again.”. Guess I’m just a glutton for punishment. Or I just enjoy having firm thighs and being post-race groped. One of those.

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Posted by on June 4, 2013 in Humor, Uncategorized

 

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